Dispatch
by Jade Sabre
Summary: Something has to fill the silent distance between Skyhold and the rest of the world; Isabelle Trevelyan picks up her pen, and prods Cullen into doing the same. The letters that keep the conversation going until such time as they see each other again, and some of the conversations in between. An entry in the 2015 DARBB.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Dispatch  
 **Author:** Jade Sabre

 **Notes:** We're back for another DARBB, this time for the inimitable janiejanine's fanmix _Just a Little Longer_.

As in past years, not only is the mix ALL MY FAVORITE THINGS, it also allows me to write something I've always wanted to write. This year, however, there's a twist: it's a love story that doesn't end in tragedy. This is not only fun for me but is also a great relief to my wonderful patient long-suffering beta Quark, without whom again, as usual, I would be lost.

This is the first arc of a longer fic; I'll be updating periodically as I write more.

You can also read the other companion piece for this beautiful mix, "" by the insanely talented tarysande.

* * *

"Skyhold is so far away."

Cullen looks away from his papers—which he has been doing more than looking _at_ them—to where the newly minted Inquisitor leans against the wall and peers out the narrow window. The bright white light of the mountains softens as it touches her face, her eyes narrowed as if straining to see the grassy plains beyond the peaks.

"Yes," he says eventually, for lack of anything better to say. "It is—highly defensible."

A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, though she doesn't look away from the window. "True," she says, "and I'm sure that's no little relief to you."

"Aside from the lack of secret escape routes," he says. "But—"

"—we will not run again," she finishes, and the smile disappears and his stomach sinks. He doesn't _mean_ to be so serious, but part of him still, after weeks of watching her convalesce, feels the immediate terror of watching her walk out the door of Haven's Chantry without knowing if he'd ever see her again. Of course it must weigh even more heavily on her, and he would—make her smile, if he can, but apparently he cannot.

"It's too much effort, anyway," he says, and she looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "Running. In the snow."

"You know," she says, thoughtfully, "I don't think I've ever tried."

 _Circle mage_ , he thinks, and the reminder startles him as if for a moment he'd forgotten. He _can't_ forget; as if, perhaps, it truly doesn't matter. He's not sure what that means. (He knows. He doesn't know if the meaning should mean anything—he is talking circles around his own mind, and—)

"We ride tomorrow," she says abruptly, leaning harder against the wall, if such a thing is possible, staring fiercely out the window, biting her lip between sentences. Of course, he thinks, she must long to be traveling again, _doing_. "For Crestwood, I mean. To meet Hawke's Warden."

"Yes," he says, not sure why she's mentioning it. "Do you need—"

"Will you write me?" she asks, all in a rush, glancing at him for a long hard moment before retreating to the mountains again, lips pressed together.

He reels from the force of her glancing, not sure what she hopes to see, what she hopes he'll—she's asked a question, and he thinks her cheeks are red. Both of these confuse him—inspire him?—but the answer is easy: "Of course," he says. Did she think he wouldn't? She's the Inquisitor—he'll have plenty of reports to make—

"Oh," she says, brightening, and her entire body relaxes such that he hadn't realized she was tense until this moment, until the concentration lifts from her face and leaves a smile in its place. "Good."

* * *

 ** _9 Guardian_**

 _Dear C-ommander Cullen,_

 _We've arrived in Crestwood. It is a_ _dreary_ _place—I thought I had seen what Ferelden had to offer in terms of rain, and yet she continues to plumb new depths of damp and wet and cold. It's almost worse than the Fallow Mire. Almost._

 _Honestly, what is wrong with the weather in this country? I can count on one hand the number of fair days I've seen since leaving the Hinterlands. Someone ought to have a word with the queen about it._

 _I'm sorry. You're from Ferelden, aren't you? It's a lovely country. Shame about the weather._

 _I thought we were here to see about Hawke's Warden, but according to the maps we've put together Harding has placed our forward camp at the exact_ _opposite_ _end of the territory, and why? Something about rumors of a rift, and the Mark—well. There's a rift around here, and from the feel of it, it's massive, so I suppose the Warden shall just have to wait._

 ** _10 Guardian_**

 _You'll be pleased to know this place is_ _exactly_ _as bad as the Fallow Mire. Yes, there's a rift under the lake, yes, demons are possessing the corpses—because the lake is full of corpses. All drowned during the Blight. An entire town, flooded. I've had enough of waterlogged bodies rising from the mud to last a lifetime._

 _And of course no one wants to talk to us about it._

 _It's still raining. Another day of this and I might take back that comment about this being a lovely country._

 _I can't reach the rift, as it's under the corpse-infested lake. The mayor of New Crestwood has not-so-politely asked us to leave, and I have forgotten what it means to be dry._

 ** _11 Guardian_**

 _I just want a fire. A nice, dry fire. With dry wood for kindling._

 _Blackwall keeps pointing out I'm a mage and therefore capable of making my own nice, dry fire, but no amount of magic can make the ground around my nice dry fire less soggy. On the bright side, I couldn't possibly start an accidental wildfire here. Even if there's a break in the rain, the trees keep dripping on us._

 _There's rumors of a way to drain the lake—a dam. Something about an old stronghold—I've passed the more important information to the scouts. We're waiting to see what they have to say before we make a move, but we may need troops—but you'll read all that in the report._

 _If you don't hear from us, it's because we've drowned, just like the poor people in the lake._

 _With great surprise that my ink hasn't completely run all over the page and ruined it,  
and with great hope that this letter finds you warm and dry,  
Inquisitor Trevelyan_

* * *

 ** _8 Guardian_**

 _Inquisitor,  
We're receiving recruits in droves—every day more arrive at our forward camp in the Frostbacks, seeking access to Skyhold. So far we've managed to keep the path more or less a secret, but Ambassador Montilyet seems to think it would be an advantage for every noble house from here to Tevinter to know how to ascend to our stronghold at their leisure. This issue will, I suspect, remain in contention until you return to give us your opinion. I hope you will recall that our safety lies in part in our inaccessibility, and judge accordingly._

 ** _9 Guardian_**

 _I've received reports that your party has arrived in Crestwood. Leliana has informed me that her scouts report the presence of more demons than previously expected. While I have no doubt in your ability to deal with them, if you have need of troops, send word._

 ** _11 Guardian_**

 _Enclosed please find the latest estimate of our total strength. I have done my best to record not only our strength in numbers but also in terms of total training per unit. Any mistakes are my own._

 _The cipher is one of Leliana's. She says her scouts should be able to decode it. I pray that she has not taken any liberty with the information in the process of encoding it. Should any confusion arise, I will do my best to clarify as promptly as possible._

 _Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition's Forces_

* * *

 ** _12 Guardian_**

 _Dear Commander,_

 _We can't keep the route to Skyhold a secret_ _forever_ _, you know. But I'll withhold further comment until I hear Josephine's side of the matter._

 _It is still rainin_

 ** _._**

 _I apologize for my earlier brevity—our every attempt to rest has been interrupted by corpses or bandits, even though by now you'd think the latter at least would recognize the Inquisition's insignia and turn tail and run, if not surrender outright. It seems a waste to have to kill them all, and between the mud and blood I don't think these robes will ever be clean again._

 ** _13 Guardian_**

 _Awaiting word on reinforcements before we approach Caer Bronach. I thought this mission was meant to be a quiet one, traversing Ferelden to find a Warden exile, and I planned my companions accordingly. Had I known I was going to be assaulting a stronghold, I would have made them all come along._

 _Well. Perhaps not Vivienne. I don't think she would consent to submitting any of her shoes to the muck. She's better off helping Josephine with the Court, though I admit I am slightly terrified whenever I consider the two of them conspiring together._

 _Honestly, though, part of the reason we've retreated for now is so that I can stay in this tent. This tent is waterproof. I can hear the rain pelting the leather, but none of it is pelting me_ _. I cannot express to you how satisfying this is._

 ** _14 Guardian_**

 _We can expect troops by midweek? My goodness, Commander, but you do work fast. I'm confident it will be more than enough to face whatever the bandits have in their hidey-hole. Ruthless they may be, but I doubt they are prepared for trained soldiers._

 _I hope it will not be a slaughter, though of course that would make it easier. Maybe they'll run up the white flag. Probably not, but I can hope._

 ** _15 Guardian_**

 _Nothing to report, other than the overabundance of obsidian and iron in the area. How do I know? The Orlesian scholars want samples, and so, when not guarding the town against corpses, we have been collecting them. Samples, that is. Not corpses. We've been burning those—well, I have, since nobody else can get a fire to stay lit long enough for a pyre._

 _All those poor people, and not a single proper funeral among them. Did I mention the mayor doesn't want anyone talking to us about it? I can't say I blame him, and yet...there are so_ _many_ _dead._

 _Enough. All this sitting around is making me maudlin. I apologize, and shall spare you any further musings until I have something new to report. Hopefully the capture of our very own Fereldan fortress._

 _Bedraggledly yours,  
Inquisitor Trevelyan_

* * *

 ** _13 Guardian_**

 _Inquisitor,_

 _I've had word of your situation from Leliana's scouts. We have troops on the Storm Coast; I shall make arrangements to send a detachment to Crestwood. If the weather is truly as bad as you claim, they may have slow going. I have confidence, however, they will reach you in a timely manner._

 _Our numbers continue to swell. The plateau below Skyhold will not be able to hold all our troops, even with the ones already assigned elsewhere. I am composing a plan to rotate troops between our various outposts. Josephine says I must be careful not to assign too many troops to any one area, as it might make the lords of the land "nervous." Perhaps if the Orlesians would pay more attention to securing their own land than to sending their troops into a fruitless civil war, they would be less concerned. Ferelden's forces are simply spread too thin._

 _If you desire any input into the placement of your troops, I would welcome it._

 ** _14 Guardian_**

 _We've had to form three new regiments to accommodate all our new troops. Many of them are untrained. More and more, however, we are receiving what I suspect are deserters from the Orlesian armies. No cheveliers, simply ordinary men tired of fighting pointless battles. I can't say I blame them, but I do plan on deploying them as near to their original assignments as possible._

 _Leliana has snatched some of them—hunters, mostly—to assist her scouts. They would be invaluable as a contingent of archers, which we are currently lacking most, but she refuses to release any of them._

 _We had grown accustomed to having you here to settle our disputes._

 ** _16 Guardian_**

 _At the time of writing this I believe our soldiers should have reached Crestwood. I look forward to hearing news of the engagement soon._

 _Maker watch over you._

 _Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition's Forces_

* * *

"May I make a suggestion?" Leliana says. She stands in the doorway with a raven perched on her arm, an oiled leather tube on its back.

"You may," Cullen says, wary, afraid she's going to return to the subject of recruiting Dalish archers. His first attempts were rebuffed, and when Josephine discovered he had sent messages on his own, he'd received a lecture about not overstepping the boundaries of his position. He'd wanted to retort that her courtly connections surely did not extend to wandering nomads, but the way she'd brandished her writing board at him had silenced him.

She does not mention the elves. Instead, she removes the cap on the tube and slips out a rolled-up parchment. He reaches for it, but she holds it just beyond his grasp. "She already receives our daily missives concerning the machinery of the Inquisition," she says, toying with a smile. "You do not need to repeat yourself in your letters."

"You—" he starts, torn between outrage and a desire to crawl beneath his desk and wait until she has disappeared.

"Only out of idle curiosity," she admits. "If you give me your word you'll _try_ , then I will stop."

"Why—"

"She's a dear child," Leliana says, as if she herself were not younger when she fought at the Warden's side. "We have precious few opportunities for rest, Commander. Do not deprive yourself of this simply because you cannot figure out how to write a letter to a pretty girl."

"I—"

"Your word?" she asks, still dangling the letter from her fingers.

His entire face is burning, voices in his head clamoring for revenge and insisting this is _none of her business_ and entirely avoiding the uncomfortable fact that she's right, that he doesn't know what he's doing or how to accomplish it and has been failing miserably in his attempts to compensate. "Fine," he says. "I'll try."

"Good," she says, handing him the letter. "Some advice?"

"No—"

"You are continuing a conversation until such time as you can converse again in person," she says, and now she is openly grinning at him. In all his time with the Inquisition he has not seen the Nightingale's eyes sparkle with such mirth or delight, and he is surprised by how it suits her. "It does not have to be _serious_."

"All right," he says, stepping towards her so that she steps backward, out of his tower. "Not serious."

"I—"

"I can write a _letter_ ," he says, sour and serious, and she laughs at him.

"Of course you can," she says, playful and light. "I have the utmost confidence in you. Good day, Commander."

"Good _day_ ," he says, and swings the door shut behind her.

* * *

 ** _18 Guardian_**

 _Dear Commander,_

 _As I'm sure you've heard, we took Caer Bronach this morning. Or possibly last night. It's so dark with all this dratted rain that our plan to wait until dawn was...compromised, and so we decided to charge ahead and hope for the best._

 _Did you know, this place has an entire series of caves beneath it? Excellent for infiltration, which bodes poorly for us now that we occupy the place, I suppose. Oh, and they're all half-flooded and full of spiders. Marvelous._

 _I'm sorry. I meant to address the issues you raised in your last batch of letters. We've been busy planning the next few days, deciding how to clear the place out. I'm not touching the issues you raised with Leliana or Josephine as I can assure you I've heard from them as well. We'll probably be making a trip to Skyhold soon; I'd hoped to find Hawke's Warden first, but sorting out this mess with the lake—well, with what used to be a lake—is turning into too big an ordeal to finish properly from here. And I've received a very confusing missive from Amund concerning his fellow Avvar and—anyway._

 _I do very much like your idea of rotating the troops around. Bring them to Skyhold for their initial training, and then return them to the areas they're most familiar with? Though that might run the risk of creating...pockets of people, instead of a unified force. But I don't like the idea of keeping soldiers away from their families for too long, if we can help it. Not that all of them have families, or families still living, I know. Beyond that, I leave it to your discretion._

 _Finally, I wanted to apologize. I think I perhaps misunderstood the nature of our correspondence. I'm sorry for bothering you with my babbling when you were looking for something a little more...structured, perhaps? In any case, I promise that in the future I shall attempt to keep to the official channels of information and not flood your office with more unnecessary paperwork._

 _Sincerely,  
Inquisitor Trevelyan_

* * *

His breath comes hard, harder than it ought, given his physical condition, but he hasn't scaled stairs like the ones in the library tower since...Kinloch Hold, and he's forgotten the nature of the exertion. Aside from dreams of endless running, running up stairs, running down stairs, rounding the bends to find demons at every—

"Can I help you?" Leliana asks, raising an eyebrow from where she sits at her table, petting a raven.

She knows exactly why he is here. He can feel it, and so he simply says, "Have you sent the Inquisitor's bird?"

"No," she says, and indicates the bird beside her. "I was about to, but I had a feeling..."

"Just this," he says, offering a folded half-sheet, edges jagged, corners not quite aligned.

She takes it and, without bothering to tease him, slides it into the tube on the bird's back. She rises from the table and carries the bird to the nearest window; after petting it and whispering in its unseen ear, she tosses it into the sky, and the beating of its wings stirs her hair after its caw has faded from the air.

"You're trying?" she says, still looking out the window.

"I gave my word," he says.

She half-turns her head, and half-smiles, and says, entirely pleased: "Good."

 **o~o**

The relief of sleeping on a real bed instead of an oiled tarp atop the wet ground, even if it's really just the bed frame with her bedroll atop it, is a pleasure too precious for words. Isabelle savors it, lying abed far longer than she probably should, but she can always blame the fact that she's still black and blue from fighting atop slick stone in the rain. She's fairly certain her ribs are bruised, and in any case she aches too much to search out any healing potions for the present.

Someone knocks at the door, and she braces herself for either an overly concerned Cassandra or an overly disapproving Cassandra, and calls, "Come in."

One of the scouts—a newer one, come in with Cullen's troops—opens the door, and she winces against the sudden bright light from outside. And then she sits up straight— _bright_ light?

"The morning's missives, milady," the scout says nervously, holding out an enormous stack of papers—of course, because now that they've captured an outpost there's questions of personnel and expanding the spy network and not angering the local bann—and she gets to her protesting feet and accepts them with a smile that turns the scout red from head to—well, his toes are hidden, but she can guess.

He stays behind her as she steps onto the walkway beyond the room. No sunshine as she'd hoped, but at least the rain has stopped and the clouds are a little less. The view beyond is the rotted remains of a drowned village, under which lurks a Fade rift still waiting to be sealed, but it's too early to dwell on such things. And so she turns her attention to her mail, trying to sift through the letters (Josephine, Josephine, Vivienne, Josephine) and the packets (all Leliana) and what appears to be several charts of numbers (the commander) and the scraps with Sera's doodles—she pauses, tilts her head, and decides she doesn't want to know.

Her heart is sinking within her chest and she is busy scolding herself for it when a hastily folded note catches her eye catches her heart with hope, and _honestly_ , Isabelle, it'd be hardly like him—

But it _is_ him, and by the time she's done reading the scant lines once (twice, three times) she's beaming like the sun in a clear blue sky.

* * *

 _Inquisitor—_

 _No—don't stop. Please._

 _I am the one who should apologize. You misunderstood nothing—_ _I_ _misunderstood—I am sorry. It has been—never mind. I am out of the practice of writing, but not out of the desire of it. I shall endeavor to improve until the writing matches the desire. Or—_

 _Maker's breath. Conversational. It never rains at Skyhold—I'm sorry, I don't have time—_

 _I read your letters last of all my correspondence. They make candles burn brighter, and the shadows a little less dark._

 _Andraste guide you,  
Cullen_


	2. Chapter 2

**_17 Drakonis_**

 _Dear Commander,_

 _You'll be pleased to know Crestwood is much more inviting when the sun is shining, and there's no enormous Fade rifts hidden under miles of rock, and no corpses coming out of a damned lake. I almost felt a pep in my step as we continued our exploration today. That may have just been the lack of mud clinging to my boots. Now that everything's cleared up, it shouldn't take long at all to make contact with the Warden. Which is good. The sooner we meet—him, I think she said—the sooner we return to Skyhold._

 _I read a story once about friends who carried on a chess game via letter, but I don't think I have the head for it. I suppose I could draw it out, but what if our letters were to get crossed?_

 _You'd have me in check in a week, anyway, and I'd have to avoid replying until I could figure a way out of it. And I wouldn't want to worry you with not writing._

 _What I'm saying is that I enjoyed playing with you and wish we could be playing now._

 _Although I'm not sure how you would handle losing all the time._

 ** _18 Drakonis_**

 _Honestly, I'm not even that_ _good_ _at chess. It was probably a fluke. Unless you let me win?_

 _Hawke found us today and informed us that her friend has only just returned to the area. Apparently we took too long sorting out the lake of corpses, and he had to make tracks elsewhere. Explains why we couldn't find him sooner._

 _I wish I knew how Hawke was able to find_ _us_ _. Normally I'd say she followed the sound of Cassandra and Varric bickering, but they're still giving each other the silent treatment. Both of them are too proud—but Varric looks_ _guilty_ _whenever he looks at Hawke when she's not looking. He didn't want her to become a tool of the Chantry, and he didn't know Cassandra was planning on forming the Inquisition. I don't know if that would have helped. I don't know if being the tool of the Inquisition is any better._

 _I mean, I hope it is. I know I'm the Inquisitor, so I can't quite call myself a tool, but the Mark certainly is, and I certainly wouldn't be Inquisitor without it. What happens when all the rifts are closed, and the Mark is no longer needed?_

 _I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll send this now, and write you anew once we've met the Warden. I'm sure he will have plenty to say._

 _In good faith,  
Inquisitor Trevelyan_

* * *

 ** _19 Drakonis_**

 _Inquisitor,_

 _I appreciate the promptness of your letter. I meant to begin my own the moment you disappeared from sight, but duty called. I decided to wait until I had heard from you to avoid, as you put it, crossed letters. I am not particularly good at waiting. Or losing, whether by accident or intent. You may rest assured of your well-earned victory, though not of any future ones._

 _Skyhold's weather remains the same. We are "floating above the clouds," as Josephine's more...inventive descriptions put it, though it seems to me that the snow on the peaks came from somewhere. I cannot imagine a snowstorm to be anything less than devastating, as exposed as we are. I've made outlines of preparations we might take in the event of one, though I do not know how much warning we would have. Perhaps you can inquire of Solas if there have been any such events here in the past._

 _Training continues to go well. I am not able to inspect the troops daily, as would be my preference, and I fear that as our numbers continue to grow my duties will increase accordingly. I don't mind solving the problems of troop placement and organization or listening to our captains' reports, but I prefer to be on the ground. It is far too easy to become accustomed to looking at numbers and names and to forget there are faces and lives behind them. The same goes for titles, as I'm sure you well know._

 _Cassandra cornered Leliana and I before she left, asking how long we'd known Hawke was alive and coming to Skyhold. The question seemed more for Leliana than myself—I assume she included me because of my previous acquaintance with the Champion. Leliana answered that Varric's letter was more effective than any of our spies, and that couldn't be helped, but she would try to recruit members of his network into ours._

 _"She's_ _alive_ _," Cassandra said. She was...frustrated._

 _"I know," Leliana answered. Also frustrated, and understanding._

 _I remember the voyage from Kirkwall. Mostly the view of the sea over the railing, whose rolling waves only made my nausea worse, but I remember Varric asking several times, with great variety of phrasing, just why he had to come along. Cassandra always answered that he was their best hope of finding Hawke. And when we were first discussing the formation of the Inquisition, and trying to decide who would be Inquisitor, Cassandra—_

 _All this to say, she had pinned a great many hopes upon Hawke, and to find herself betrayed by someone she has come to view as a friend has been...difficult. No doubt you know this. I do not envy you standing between them._

 _I will add, however, that I think her hope was always misplaced. I said as much when she first raised the issue before me. The Champion is a woman of great magical strength, it is true, but she has always resisted the mantle of leadership. She tried too hard to appease too many parties, rather than taking a stand for one or the other. I remember her at the end, after all the fighting and Knight-Commander Meredith's...transformation. She was terrified. She fled the city rather than face the aftermath of her friend's actions. She is wholly capable, but she is not willing._

 _I do not think Cassandra understands the distinction, or that someone could be one without being the other. I myself struggled with blaming her for months. Part of me still does, which I suppose added to my lack of enthusiasm. The Inquisition is better served by someone who understands the risks, the costs, and still stands up to take and bear them._

 _We eagerly await news of your meeting with the Warden. I look forward to our next game._

 _Take care,_

 _Cullen, Commander, etc._

* * *

 ** _19 Drakonis_**

 _Dear Comm—Cullen,_

 _I'm from Ostwick, as you know. It's a nice city, I suppose, though I'm not familiar with much beyond the Circle and my family's estate. Not as nice as Val Royeaux, but we Marchers prefer good solid grey stone to marble and the Maker's natural beauty to paint. Or so the saying goes, though I think it's more that Orlais has better paint than we do. Ours fades after a few rains, and everyone's too lazy to touch it up. I know this because we used to have to paint the trim at the Circle—I'm sorry, that's not what I meant to tell you._

What I meant to tell you about all this is that we're on the coast, by the Waking Sea (which probably doesn't help the paint), not so far from a few Fereldan ports. So I'm familiar with—stories. I spent much of my time in the Circle reading. (That's an understatement.) (I know mages are meant to be kept busy—less time to dabble in blood magic or summoning demons—but so much of that seemed to involve twiddling our thumbs waiting for our turn to do spells and so I would read.) (And before bed.) (And sometimes after lights out, if the book was particularly good.)

 _So—I want you to understand that I'm familiar with Ferelden and her heroes, and that it is no little thing that I just met Loghain mac Tir._

 ** _24 Drakonis_**

 _I had to stop writing because Hawke wanted to talk, and since then we've been riding hard, trying to make good time. She's going to accompany us as far as the Frostbacks and then make her way to the Western Approach in order to aid our scouts, once we send them. I urged her to come to Skyhold, but she says she has a brother in the Wardens and wants to make sure he's not with all the others. Varric says someone named Aveline is taking care of him, but Hawke's worried. Wants to take care of this as quickly as possible._

 _I can't say I blame her. The news is—well. Blood magic and demons. Not particularly what I want to discuss or you want to read about._

 _So, then. Warden Loghain. Was he ever a hero of yours? I imagined all the little boys in Ferelden wanted to grow up to be the Hero of River Dane as all the little girls wanted to be Queen Rowan, aside from the whole wasting away at a young age part. In some ways he is exactly everything a hero of legend ought to be—older but still strong, craggy face, very blunt—but in other ways he surprises. As seriously as he takes everything, he's remarkably reassuring about the fact that we're all going to die. I suppose when you've been through as much as he has, when you're supposed to have died so many times over—_

 _I asked Solas about Ostagar once—well, he was telling me about dreaming there, and I asked what happened. He said it depended on whose dream you dreamed. I admit I'm too much of a coward to ask the man himself. He's risking his neck for us, after all. Well, for himself too. It's a nasty business, but for a traitor, he's...remarkably free. Couldn't care less what we think of him. Wants to get the job done. Isn't worried about dying, just wants to make sure it's a good death for the right reasons, and a fake Calling doesn't qualify._

 _Varric wants to ask him a million questions, I can tell, but Cassandra's glared him into silence for now._ _She_ _has not forgotten the man's a traitor, but I suppose being a living legend herself she doesn't have the same feeling of awe. And we all know how she feels about forgiveness._

 _I'm sorry. The silence is grating. Varric talks to Hawke, and occasionally to me, and that's it. Cassandra just glares. Blackwall's quiet for reasons of his own—he's said he hasn't heard the Calling himself, which is good! But he doesn't seem happy about it, and I don't think he likes having to deal with a traitor either. Even if the traitor is a fellow Warden who helped stop a Blight._

 _Hawke doesn't mind him, obviously, and she and he and I talk, but it's almost all business. She's very kind and solicitous, but she's worried about her brother and Corypheus. And he's_ _Loghain mac Tir_ _. He abandoned his king and plunged his country into civil war and still managed to help save it, and that was all so_ _long_ _ago—and the Battle of River Dane was even longer—but how am I supposed to make small talk with someone like that?_

 _So I'm sitting here, writing you because there's no one to talk to. Of course I'd write you anyway, but we've stopped for the night and no one's talking and I have time to write and write and write. I used to write letters to my sister all the time, especially after she married and moved to Starkhaven. Once I forgave her for it. I haven't written her in—too long. Since Haven? I had Josephine send messages to my family to let them know I survived the attack, but I can't remember the last time I wrote them myself._

 _I should do that._

 _I'll send this in the morning, as we're on our way back to Skyhold now. We should only be a day or two behind it, so please, don't feel obligated to reply._

 _Hurrying as fast as I can,_

 _Isabelle Trevelyan_

* * *

 ** _25 Drakonis_**

 _Dear Inquisitor,_

 _I did indeed play the Battle of River Dane as a child, though never the Hero. My elder sister dictated our roles, and I was always Maric on account of the king being described as "fair-haired." She was Rowan, of course, and the now-dubious honor of playing Teyrn mac Tir went to my brother. Rosalie usually had the task of playing the entire Orlesian army. She was very good at dramatic deaths and terrible accents._

 _Although I remember now when she went through a phase where she refused to be recognized as anything other than a dog and instead served as Rowan's faithful mabari. We had to recruit other children to be the Orlesians. One of them insisted on throwing himself upon Rowan's sword whenever he had the chance. Mia's married him, if I remember his name correctly. I was surprised when I finally read her letter; my memory is of a short quiet boy, his enthusiasm for dying at her feet aside. But of course that was years ago._

 _Our scouts report you're a day's ride from Skyhold, so I suspect this letter will at worst meet you at the gate. I have little else to relate that will not hold until you are here. But I do not remember my childhood often, though I'm not sure I've ever known happier times. And so—_

 _Thank you._

 _Cullen, Commander, etc._

* * *

He smiles when he sees her.

At first she had hoped he'd be there when they arrived, but of course upon further reflection she'd realized she was sweaty and disheveled from three days' hard riding and his absence is a relief, and then she feels silly for caring one way or another. To hide her shame she departs from her new guest without so much as a by-your-leave, following the servant Josephine has sent to escort her to her new quarters.

(Her quarters are vast. Nearly as large as the apprentice dormitory at the Ostwick Circle, and so _empty_ by comparison. Her heart aches with echoes of remembered laughter.)

She spends an inordinately long time in her new bath, partly to escape the size of her room and partly because convincing herself to _calm down_ proves no easy task. His letter had been convivial, in its own way, and full of implications, and the note she'd gotten halfway up the mountain had been charming and set her heart to twinging on his behalf. But she has no _business_ twinging on his behalf; they are friends, and of course it is natural to feel concern, to be touched by any expression of confidence, but her heart is pounding as it hasn't since she put away the infatuations of adolescence in favor of the stark reality of the rest of her adult life and—

She will _master_ this, she thinks hopelessly, for the thought of course sounds so much like something he'd say it makes her laugh, and she despairs because she's not the mastering sort—

And finally she leaves the bath and dresses herself and makes for the War Room, half an hour late by the clock but at least she wasn't _hiding_ , she wouldn't—

And then she enters the War Room, and he's _there_ and her heart—

and he _smiles_ —

is doomed, and she's never felt better.

 **o~o**

The first scouting reports from the Western Approach reach Skyhold at the end of a fortnight, and the news they hold is grim.

"The desert," the Inquisitor says, looking from the Orlesian side of the map to the reports scattered across the other half of the table.

"We knew that," Leliana says, and indeed the map is helpfully colored to depict the region's arid desolation.

"I know," she sighs, and she leans against the table, one hand on the Approach, the other tracing its way to Skyhold. He watches her fingers drum across the ink, long, slim, wishes he were the map. "Our troops have already departed?"

Her fingers stop at the edge of the mountains and curl against the vellum. The back of her hand is smooth, but as he considers it he sees a fresh scar nicking the crook of her thumb, and then her hanging head lifts expectantly and he realizes what she's said. "What we could muster on relatively short notice," he says, not quite stumbling over the words. And the _way_ she's looking at him—as if she's not particularly focused on the task at hand herself—he looks away from her gaze, only to settle on her hand once more. "I sent Knight-Captain Rylen with them. He will manage until we can provide more."

"Good," she says, and her hand disappears to rub at her face. His eyes drop to the map. For the best.

"Do you think we will require many more?" Josephine asks, quill poised over her board.

"It depends," the Inquisitor says, her tone lightening. "How many Grey Wardens does Orlais have again?"

"Too many," Cullen grumbles.

"Not enough," Leliana corrects him, "in the event of another Blight."

"Grey Wardens are considered the most formidable warriors in Thedas," Cullen says. "The lieutenants have reported the men are anxious about facing them. I'd prefer to send as many soldiers as we can spare."

"I will need numbers," Josephine says, quill scribbling away. "We must assure the chevaliers that we are not sending troops against _them_ , and the lords will want to know how many to expect crossing their lands."

"Of course," he says.

"Cullen's good at numbers," the Inquisitor adds, unexpectedly, with a hint of a laugh in her voice, and he starts and looks at her and her lips are curved and her eyes are— _distracting_.

"Yes," he says, and then, "well," and Leliana would never be so overt as to _giggle_ but even Josephine's quill has paused as she concentrates on not looking at him and his neck is hot and he is good at numbers but he is _not_ good at words and he grasps, futilely, for the ones he wants. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome," she says with a courtier's decorum, but all three women are laughing at him with their eyes and he needs to escape before the tattered shreds of his dignity burn up in his embarrassment.

"Yes, well," he says, brilliantly, "I shall begin work on them at once."

"Of course," Leliana says. "And I shall have my scouts rendezvous with Rylen and see how far they can press into the territory."

"Right," the Inquisitor says, some of the laughter fading as she straightens. "How soon will I be departing?"

"I'm still waiting to hear from a few of my contacts," Josephine says. "I know time is of the essence, but I want to ensure you will have proper support on your journey—"

"And a few places to wine and dine, I know," she says. "But soon?"

"By the end of the week, at the latest."

"Good," Leliana says. "Our people need her support in the Approach."

Her smile is rueful, and she's glancing at him again and he drops his gaze and starts to gather the reports he needs. "Then we'll reconvene in the morning," she says.

He nods, still sorting through papers—and _what_ has Sera drawn on the back of—is that supposed to be a horse? The report has just arrived this morning, _when_ she had time to—a dark-skinned hand touches the back of his, and he looks up, startled, to see Josephine nodding in the direction of the door. When he follows her gaze he catches the Inquisitor taking great care in studying the door before she opens it, her hand lingering on the handle. He nods briefly—he'll just gather up—and as the door creaks open this time the touch is more a rapping reprimand, and when he looks at Josephine she gives a little jerk of her head, her smile fixed but her eyes boring into him.

Empty-handed and resigned, he catches up to the Inquisitor a few steps into the hallway. She turns her head at the sound of his boots and her face brightens, but there's a tension in her shoulders at odds with her meandering pace. "Cullen," she says, not breaking stride.

"Isabelle," he says, feeling his own shoulders ease at the sound of her name, an unconscious permission to relax, at least for the space between here and his office. She doesn't say anything in response, however, and he isn't sure where to begin. So he opens the door to Josephine's office, and she nods her thanks as she passes, and as he closes it behind them he says, "Will you be bringing all your companions with you?"

"Yes," she says, sounding a bit surprised. "It's too far away—and I don't think stealth is going to be as much of a concern in the—what'd they call it? 'Blighted desert'?"

"I believe so," he says, and the fire in the fireplace pops as they reach the far door. "At least it won't be raining?"

She laughs, the sound startled and explosive in the antechamber, and as he reaches around her for the door to the Great Hall she is—close, grinning up at him, and it takes all his willpower to open the door instead of taking her in his arms and—what?

(Kissing her, but even that he can't imagine, not properly, not without a thousand voices in his head telling him it's impossible, no matter her smiles and letters and the note of _something_ in her voice he only hears when she says his name. He aches to feel the softness of her skin, but to take that step—)

The door is open and they're staring at each other and he needs to— _move_ , and so he steps ahead of her, his feet automatically guiding him to the library tower and the causeway to his office. She falls in beside him, and by some unspoken agreement they are silent amidst the bustling courtiers and masons in the hall, the same unspoken accord that keeps him near her, close enough to dissuade anyone else from approaching. The top of her head doesn't quite reach his chin, though as he glances around the hall he feels the tickle of errant wisps of her hair. If he wanted to (he does want to) he could put out a hand and rest it on the small of her back, but instead he holds his wrist behind his back, the picture of a diligent commander. Diligent. Dutiful, even.

And then they are in the room Solas has claimed for his own, though the elf is absent, and her pace slows and he bumps into her. "Sorry," he says immediately, stepping back, and the smile she flashes is tight, perfunctory.

"It's all right," she says, and pauses to look around the tower. He follows the course of her gaze, trying to guess—the walls are mostly bare, though the painting Solas has done is impressive and charcoal outlines show plans for more, and then there is the door to the stairs, but then she shakes her head and turns towards the door that leads to his office.

This pleases him more than he shows, though he nearly runs into her again when she hesitates with her hand on the door. "The Western Approach," she says finally, and then she opens the door and he blinks against the sunlight as she finishes, "is very far away."

"Yes," he says. She meanders onto the causeway, her hand slowly sliding along the low stone wall, and for a moment he watches her, gilded in sunlight and stealing his breath and for a moment he wishes—he _wants_ , the sight burning itself into his memory. _Too far_ , he wants to say, wants to grab her hand and tell her to wait, but he—

She looks over her shoulder at him, questioning, and he hastens to join her, matching the deliberation of her steps if not their haphazard fall. "Very far," she repeats, her hand lingering on the stone and he could _take it_ if he wanted to. (It is not a matter of wanting, but of propriety and hierarchy and discipline and most of all a deep-rooted fear of rejection he did not realize he felt until this moment. If she should refuse—)

And then she takes two decisive steps forward and turns to face him, and he stops, startled, arms dangling at his sides, and she crosses her arms and says, without quite meeting his eyes, "May I ask you something?"

He tries to think (tries not to hope) what she could ask, his heart pounding in his chest, nerves thrumming as if in preparation for battle, and the insidious thought steals into his head that he could calm himself, that he could _know_ , but lyrium does not provide the ability to read minds and he's not in danger of anything more than embarrassment and he will not be _afraid_ (he is so afraid, and the lyrium is a surety amidst chaos but not a bulwark against it and he doesn't need it and he doesn't _want_ it, not now, not in the way he _wants_ —)

He tries to be professional. "Of course," he says, and then the little song in his head taunts him and he cannot help mentioning, "If it's about the lyrium—"

"What?" she says, her gaze darting up to his and clearly this has _nothing_ to do with the lyrium but now she's thinking about it and he doesn't want her to think about it nearly as much as he wants her to—to—"Not at all," she says, recovering, though she crosses her arms and drops her eyes again. "I trust you."

"Oh," he says, and the little song mocks her but it has no strength except that which he gives it, and he will _not_ allow it power over her. "Then—yes. I'm sorry. Please, continue."

"Continue. Right." She laughs a little, her fingers twitching, and then she uncrosses her arms and turns and braces herself on the wall, looking out over the courtyard, and he thinks perhaps the moment has passed. He swallows, wondering and not hoping, staring at the rigid line of her shoulders, wanting to put his hands on them, and if this carries on much longer—

"Right," she says again, and turns back to him and wraps her arms around herself and says, still not-quite-looking at him, "I'm going to ask you this, and I'm only going to ask you once, and I'll accept whatever you say and I won't ask you again unless you give me serious reason—I said that," she says, clearly frustrated, and his throat his dry and he can't quite breathe. "But you're a man of honor and your word and I—I trust you, and I'll believe you."

He makes an inarticulate noise, perhaps an _um_ , and his hand automatically raises to rub the back of his neck as it turns hot from the sheer pleasure her words evoke, and then she looks him square in the eye and he freezes. "Could you," she begins.

"Yes," he says immediately, the answer welling up from somewhere in his soul.

Her shoulders slump and her expression turns defeated and pleading. "You don't even know—I haven't _asked_ yet," she says, and he's never seen her— _desperate_. Before he can—apologize, take her in his arms, _something_ , she barrels on. "I—could you—look," she says, "I'm a mage. And I know you know that," she says, "but I don't know if—I don't—I—" She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, deep enough for the both of them, and she sets her shoulders and says, "Could you care for a mage?"

She's asking. He's been not-hoping and not-wondering but he doesn't have to because she's said it, the words as dazzling as the sun on the mountain snow even as her voice is underwritten with despair and doubt and _never ever_ s he knows all too well. But the answer is at once staggering and simple, impossible—Cullen Rutherford, former templar, witness of the worst magic has to offer, care for a mage—and moot; it's _her_ , and somehow she's found her way to the root of him whether he cared to acknowledge it or not.

He cares. Very much, and she is waiting for his response. It rests on the tip of his tongue, hesitant, as if to say it—and will he be the same man? Former templar, Commander of the Inquisition's armies, diligent, dutiful, victim no more; but he is all those things _now_ , and he wants to be them for her.

He takes a step forward and she opens her eyes, startled, immediately dropping her gaze until he says, "Yes."

"Oh," she says, now looking up at him with wide eyes, biting her lip—and oh, her _lips_ , and he steps forward again and she takes two steps backward and says, "Could you—"

"Yes?" he says, taking another step.

"I haven't _asked_ ," she says, teasing but still tremulous, as if the enormity of this might well shake her apart. She takes another step back, and his fingers twitch. She lets out a breath and says in a hopeful rush, "Could you care for _me_?"

"I could," he says, and then the hypothetical catches up to him and he says, "I _do_ ," and the look she gives him stops him in his tracks, gladness, yes, but disbelieving too, and he's not sure—

"Just like that?" she says, taking another step back, and he matches her, step for step, and it vaguely occurs to him that she is taking him to his office because they are out in full view of both courtyards and all his soldiers on the wall, and _that_ thought nearly causes him to trip.

"Well—"

"Why haven't you _said_ —"

"You're the Inquisitor," he says, and she seems skeptical of how obviously enormous that fact is and in the face of it he can't quite remember why it was so important either. "We're at war," he says, advancing again, and this time she doesn't draw away, her gaze steady, and he swallows hard as he closes the distance and draws breath and with it an unbidden admittance: "It seemed too much to ask."

"Oh," she says softly, looking up at him, and she _understands_ in a way he hadn't—he can't—words aren't enough, and he reaches and— _there_ , his fingers are on her cheek, and she closes her eyes and leans into the touch, her skin soft and pliable and warm and he wonders if she can feel him trembling. "Well," she murmurs, "it's not, and you can ask." She leans further into him, until his hand is cupping her cheek, his fingers sliding over the surprising curve of her ear, and whispers, "Please ask."

He forces himself to maintain the ever-decreasing distance between his lips and hers, though he can't help bumping her nose with his as he breathes, "Could you—"

"Sir!" says a voice from behind them, and her eyes fly open and she hits her forehead against his and he takes a stumbling step back and turns and finds himself face-to-face with a beet-red lieutenant standing on the steps with a sheaf of paper clutched in his hands.

" _What_?" he snaps, and beside him he feels Isabelle curl in on herself and blood is thundering through his veins and he is very possibly going to have the young man in front of him drawn and quartered without a second thought.

"You—wanted—" the lieutenant flounders, and then he waves the paper and says, "I was told to deliver this report, but you weren't in your office and—"

"There," Cullen says, catching it and pulling it out of the lieutenant's grip. It rips, nearly in two, but he doesn't particularly care. "You've delivered it."

"Right," the lieutenant says, and he takes a step back up the stairs, but Isabelle makes a noise of protest and he looks at her and his face turns purple as he immediately looks away. "Right," he says again, this time almost a squeak, and he starts forward, moving past them.

"Wait," she calls, and he freezes and turns on his heel with great reluctance. "Not a _word_ ," she says, and as he looks between the two of them with an expression suggesting he'd prefer a Fade rift to open beneath his feet and swallow him whole, she adds, "please. Promise."

"Of—of course. Not. My lady," he says, and in his haste to bow and depart he nearly trips and falls over the wall.

When Cullen turns back she is still watching him go, shaking her head ruefully, saying, "I was trying to be dis _cre_ —" and then the report is on the ground and his hands are cradling her face and his lips are on hers and she is _warm_ , electrifying, soft and warm and a little wet and she makes another noise and he pulls her closer, his fingers finding their way into her hair, tugging locks loose and her lips are moving against his and it is more than anything he could ever have imagined, even if he had allowed himself to imagine it, and he could quite happily—

stop, because he has to breathe, and she pulls her head back before he can resume the kiss and he swallows and withdraws just enough to see her as more than a blur coming together before his eyes. "Sorry," he says, still trying to catch his breath, fingers still toying with her hair, sliding it between forefinger and thumb and it is softer than he was expecting—he didn't have expectations—

"You forgot to _ask_ ," she says, but she is laughing, breathless and delighted and grinning up at him.

"Oh," he says, startled, and his hands fall away but she catches one of them and brings it back up to her cheek, holding it there. "Could you—" she slides her fingers between his and he has to swallow "—care, that is, do you, for—"

"You? Yes," she finishes for him, still laughing, and with fingers still laced with his she pulls away but pulls him with her, up the stairs towards his office. He follows, not quite crashing into her, close enough to put his other hand to her neck, and she says, " _Discretion_ ," as she pulls him into the office. He has to release her to close the door, and when he turns around she is suddenly against him, her arms sliding around his chest as she lays her head against it, and he wraps his arms around her and she sighs and he goes very, very still, a quiet he didn't know possible sinking into his bones, and for a moment everything within him is whole.

It is too much to be borne, too soon, and he is unsteady as she sighs again and looks up at him. Her eyes are mirthful and serious all at once, and he can't help smiling at the sight of her. "Aside from, shall we say, ill-timed interruptions," she says, smiling back for a moment before a steady-eyed seriousness overtakes her expression, "no regrets?"

He tightens his grip on her. Whoever he might have been—might be—whatever he might have felt, or thought, or believed—he has never been more _himself_ than he is in this moment, with her in his arms. Too much too soon, but true nonetheless. "No," he says, sliding a hand over her shoulder, up her neck, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "No regrets."

She hums a sigh and leans into his touch. "I believe you," she says, and this time she is there to hold him as the strength of her trust rocks him to the core.

"Good," he says, and then, because he _can_ , he drops his head for another kiss; and she gives it, gladly, and for the moment the Western Approach is very far away, indeed.


End file.
